“You just... carry tools around?”
He was already examining the door with the focus of a surgeon. “Useful to have.”
“For all those emergency door repairs you do in thunderstorms?”
“Exactly.”
I stood there dripping while he did mysterious things with the hinges and latch. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, and within minutes, my demon door actually closed. And stayed closed.
We stood there, both creating small lakes on my floor, and I became extremely aware of how my dress had basically become body paint at this point. Nothing about this screamed “professional business owner.” Everything about it screamed “contestant in a wet t-shirt contest she didn’t sign up for.”
“Towels,” I squeaked, my voice hitting notes usually reserved for dog whistles. “I have towels. In the back. For... drying.”
Smooth, Lina. Real smooth.
I led the way to the back room, trying not to think about how I probably looked from behind. Or how he looked from behind, with his shirt plastered to his back in ways that made me notice muscle groups I didn’t know existed. This was fine. Everything was fine. Just a normal evening of being saved from a murderous door by a man who made wet cotton look sophisticated.
The back room was marginally warmer than the main shop, though the overhead light kept doing an ominous flicker that suggested it might give up at any moment. I grabbed towels from the supply closet, handing him one while trying very hard not to stare.
“Thanks,” he said, running it over his hair, which only made it stick up in ways that should have looked ridiculous but instead made me want to run my fingers through it.
I turned away to give him privacy and also to give myself a stern mental lecture. This was Matthias. My regular customer. Who just happened to be driving by in a Category 5 storm and happened to have tools and happened to know how to fix doors and happened to look really good wet.
The lights flickered more dramatically, and I had just enough time to think “please no” before the power died completely.
Darkness swallowed the room for three seconds before the emergency lighting kicked in, bathing everything in that specific shade of green that horror movies used right before someone got murdered.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Just perfect. Would you like some green-tinted coffee with your power outage?”
“I’ll pass.” I could hear amusement in his voice even if I couldn’t quite see his expression in the zombie apocalypse lighting.
“Great. Because the espresso machine is electric and currently as useful as my weather app that promised ‘light showers’ today.”
“You have a camping stove in the camping supplies,” he said, and I definitely didn’t jump at how he knew that. Normal. Everything was normal.
“How did you...”
“Saw it when you got the towels. The door was open.”
Right. The door. Not creepy at all. Just observant.
We ended up behind the counter with my ancient battery-powered space heater between us, sitting on the floor becausethe chairs were all in the main shop area and neither of us wanted to venture into the green-lit nightmare out there. I made coffee on the camping stove, proud that my hands only shook a little bit.
“For emergencies,” I explained as I handed him a mug.
“Like being trapped with strangers during apocalyptic storms?”
“Exactly. Though I’d argue you’re not really a stranger anymore. You’re more of a... regular stranger.”
“Regular stranger. I’ll take it.”
The wind screamed against the windows, and I tried not to think about how cozy this actually was. Just me and my mysterious regular, sharing battery-powered heat while the world ended outside. Normal Tuesday night activities.
“So,” I said, desperate for conversation that didn’t involve me thinking about how good he smelled even soaked in rain, “finish that book?”
“The butler did it.”
“I told you! The inheritance angle was too obvious. When authors spend that much time on financial troubles, it’s always misdirection.”
